Page 3 of Hunted By Fae
It’s cool to the touch, a cold metal on my palm, as I consider myself in the mini mirror. There’s a faint distortion to the reflection, like a camera zoomed in and warped.
The look I give myself is grim.
Sweat.
It is my ruin.
It sticks mousy strands of hair to my temples and jaw and neck; it gathers above my brow in a glisten; runs mascara under my eyes, a smudge that I’m quick to wipe at; and all traces of lipstick are gone.
I start on the pointless effort of fixing my ghastly appearance. I peel hairs from my face, one strand at a time, then tuck them behind my ears as though they will stay put, which of course they won’t.
I need a hair elastic, like now.
With a huff, I snap the compact shut and cram it back into the bag. Keys jangle, credit cards slide around, cash crinkles. I wrestle the zip shut—then cringe.
A heavy buzz carries overhead.
I turn my panicked gaze up at the buzz, a deep bass humming right above me—and I expect to see a couple of wasps hovering there.
That’s not what I find.
Dozens of flies, a hundred maybe, are huddled together—a drifting cloud of buzzing darkness.
No, not drifting.
There is direction, there is unity in them.
Flies, huddled, congregated—and all moving in the direction of the unofficial parking lot.
There’s either a freshly deceased corpse for them to feast on out that way, or flies have started to work in tandem.
I spare the dark cloud an odd look before I slip the bag off the table.
My gaze abandons the flies and rediscovers Tesni.
She’s right where I last saw her, on the hood of the pickup truck. Only, the guy between her legs has drawn back a step, no longer focused on kissing down her neck.
Both of them are just… staring at the radio, as if hypnotised.
I tug away from the table, boots scuffing over dead grass. My frown digs deeper into my face, turns my mouth down at the corners, as I watch Tesni flap her hand in the guy’s face, ashut the fuck up, then she turns the volume up on the radio.
At the next truck over, an older couple are inching closer to Tesni, to the radio, severe twists to their faces, frowns of concentration—or worry.
What the announcement is, I don’t know, but I recognise the slack look on Tesni’s face, the worry edging into her, then the nervous way she bites down on her bottom lip. Not a coy gesture, not cute, but that anxious thing she does, literally chews and rips at her own lip skin when things are bad.
I’ve seen her do it twice before. Just twice.
Those two times, shit got real. Literal housemate fights in the kitchen and that time Tesni brought a glass bottle down on a guy’s head.
Instinct has my insides running cold at the sight of it, Tess redirecting pain onto herself in an attempt to stop her impending explosion.
My grip tightens on the strap of my bag.
I take a side-step around the table, watching as more people draw closer to the hood of the truck—to the radio.
Now, a handful of people surround it.
Faces are furrowed, brows sweaty, hands flapping to shush those who dare speak over the warble of the announcement, and quizzical looks are exchanged.
